It Rates a Nine
by darthsydious
Summary: Molly is about ready to pop. Poor John. And Sherlock's bare feet. And oh hey Mycroft is here! Rated a T just in case.


_Reeeeeaally hope I got all my spelling mistakes and grammar fixed lol! Enjoy!_

* * *

At 221b Baker Street, life was back to normal. Well, as normal as life could be when sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes. Of course there were some changes. John and Molly were married now, and she was pregnant. Renovations were being made for the upstairs flat; they'd be able to move in after the baby was born. The pipes upstairs needed to be replaced, as well as the crown molding in the master bedroom; the bathroom floor and the kitchen appliances were all frightfully outdated. Mycroft owed Molly a rather large favor and footed the bill. She would receive a text once a week, asking her to come downstairs where an unmarked black car would be waiting for her. It would then take her wherever she wished to go to look at samples, furniture, anything she and John wanted for their new flat. She thought it was a terrific joke that Mycroft sent his personal town car, 'Bond car' she called it, for her to take her and look at something as basic as paint samples.

While they waited for the construction to finish, Molly spent her days at St. Barts, while John and Sherlock worked on cases. At night, when they weren't busy, if she could commandeer the kitchen from Sherlock and his experiments, Molly would cook dinner, nearly force-feeding Sherlock at one point. He humored her and ate a little, only because she was pregnant. He'd made the mistake once to snap at her, and she threw his plate at the wall. John asked him, for nothing else than the sake of the crockery that Sherlock try and be a decent human being for the remainder of Molly's pregnancy. Her maternity leave came as she was five months pregnant. Once she was home for good, she stirred restlessly around the flat, until John thought he would go mad between Sherlock and Molly. It wasn't Molly's fault her hormones were all over the place, she couldn't be blamed for her reactions, but Sherlock seemed to act even more like a petulant child in response to her.

John, for his part, was an excellent husband. He ate whatever Molly cooked, rubbed her back when it was sore, carried all her bags, picked her up from work, and told her every morning she was lovely. Her mood swings were random at best, and while John was content to simply ride them out, Sherlock tried to find patterns in them to know when best they could avoid her. Unfortunately Molly caught on faster than he anticipated and he was then forced to submit to her tirade which ended in her sobbing on him. As her due date crept closer and closer, she began cleaning the flat, something Sherlock did _not_ appreciate. John came home from the clinic to find Molly (two weeks from her due date, mind) and Sherlock, glaring at each other. That of itself wasn't so shocking since she'd gone on her maternity leave; it was just a question of who had done what.

"Uh…hi," John began. "What's up?"

"She's sending all my experiments back to the morgue!" Sherlock snapped.

"They are biohazard! They can't even be called experiments anymore; I doubt the morgue can even take them back after what you did to Mr. Roland's arm!"

"Excuse me-"

"It was necessary to thread the cephalic vein, the incident with the artery was not-"

"I don't care what you had to do; you could at least store them properly!"

"The box specifically labeled "non-leaking, and can hold up to three kilos, I doubt Mr. Roland's arm weighs even two!"

"Guys!"

"_What?_" they both looked at the quiet doctor, glaring.

John sighed heavily. He decided he could wait this one out rather than get involved.

"I'm…going to pick up dinner," he said and shut the door behind him.

"You won't even be here in a few months, just leave them on my shelf in the fridge." Sherlock said, turning back to her.

"On top of everything so the ooze will all drip down onto our food?" Molly shot back, horrified.

"If it's properly sealed, there won't be any cause for alarm, if you're so concerned, put your things on the top shelf, at least until you move out. God knows it can't come soon enough!" and Sherlock threw himself on the couch, arms folded. Molly stood there with her hands full of what was left of Mr. Roland's arm and a bag of thumbs and two eyeballs (not matching) and burst into tears. Sherlock shut his eyes,

"Stop it, I can't think with your blubbering,"

"I'm sorry," she cried, shaking hands putting his things back on the table. She wiped her nose on the cuff of her jumper, shuffling into the living room to plop in John's chair. "I can't help it, I just want us all to stay together, and I'm ruining everything and you can't do your experiments properly because I won't let you use the tub and-" she hiccupped, trying to catch her breath.

"Nesting is a perfectly normal part of being pregnant," Sherlock said, eyes still shut. "Just leave my things alone and I shan't say anything else." She sat there, crying. He cracked an eye open. "Trying to think," this didn't seem to make things better, and John wasn't here. He sat up with a heavy sigh. Stiffly, he put his arms around her, squeezing quickly, almost pinching. "There, all better, hug and kisses. Stop it now." He ordered and flopped back onto the couch.

"I'm sorry I'm in your way all the time," she said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

"You aren't," he said, opening one eye. "You may throw out the eyeballs at any rate. I'm finished with them. The thumbs go in the freezer on top of the bag of peas, and Mr. Roland's arm goes on the top shelf, next to Mrs. Carmichael's liver." Molly shook her head, sighing heavily. One hand on her back, the other on the armrest, she hoisted herself up, only to fall back into the chair with a grunt. Sherlock watched with some amusement as she struggled to get up until he finally reached his arm out for her to take. As she stood, the child within her gave a mighty kick and she fell to her knees, nearly sitting on Sherlock.

"Oh my -" she gasped. He sat up, annoyed she'd nearly crushed him, but noting the pain on her face made him pause.

"Molly?"

"It's alright, baby's just kicking." Not convinced, he helped her to her feet. Once in the kitchen, she shook him off, smiling. "There see? I'm alright." She reached for the kettle, "tea?"

"Please," he said, watching her carefully.

"Oh, can you-" she gestured to the parts on the table and he snatched them up, putting them in their respected places. "Thank you, Sherlock," she said with a beaming grin and he studied her a moment.

Did she just trick him?

"Are you hungry?" she asked, interrupting him. "I hope John is bringing food, where's my phone?" she rummaged through her pockets until she found it, tapping out a text. "Good," she said aloud after a moment, "He's bringing something from the Chinese place down the street, anything in particular you want?"  
"Yes, another arm," Sherlock said, heading upstairs.

When John came home, he found Molly on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. Sherlock was nowhere in sight.

"Molly!" he gasped, setting his armload down, he helped her up,

"No don't- it took me ages to get down here," she complained. "The floors are filthy!"

"Then I'll wash them," John said, setting her down on the chair.

"You won't do it properly," Molly said, peeling her gloves off.

"Sherlock!"

"John there is no need to bellow," he said, standing on the stairs.

"Did you know Molly was scrubbing the floors?!"

"Yes," the consulting detective blinked. "Obviously, she made sure to inform me so I wouldn't walk on the wet floor." John's mouth hung open, indignant, angry, shock that his friend did not see how wrong it was to allow a very pregnant woman to scrub floors.

"And you just _let_ her?" he asked. Sherlock only frowned, coming all the way into the kitchen to poke the bags of food.

"Well, _yes_," he replied, not seeing how the situation could be any clearer to John. "You specifically told me to let Molly do as she wishes-"

"Boys-"

"Unless it was harmful to her or the baby-"

"I don't think scrubbing a floor is dangerous to either of them,"

"What if she slipped and fell or the detergent she used is toxic-"

"John-"

"Honestly, it isn't as if she's eating it-"

"Just breathing it in-"

"SHUTUP AND LET ME SPEAK!" Molly screeched, rising to her full height (which was still quite short) between the two of them. They were so surprised that they actually did shut up. "Now listen-" she began, but a sudden, sharp pain cut her short, and she leaned against the table for support. Both men now reached for her,

"Molls, you ok?"

"No, I'm going to have to scrub the floor again," she groaned.

"You'll do nothing of the kind-"

"I'm afraid she will John," Sherlock interrupted, "It seems her water just broke." They all looked at the floor, Molly's damp legs, and Sherlock's bare feet.

"Oh- my God- ok, ok let's not panic-" John ran a hand through his short hair, "Ok, coats, shoes- I'll phone the hospital so they'll have a bed ready-"

"I need my bag," Molly said over him dialing. Sherlock turned and calmly went upstairs while John scampered around the flat, snatching up his coat, Molly's coat and shoes and the two overnight bags by the door.

"Sit down, I'll get your shoes on for you- Sherlock!" when no answer came from upstairs, John snorted. "Figures," he grumbled. "Come on,"

"John-" Molly began. Her quiet tone made him look up from tying her shoes. "I'm scared," she murmured, flushed. Her large eyes trained on him before flicking down at the floor, embarrassed.

"Hey, it's ok, I'm going to be right here with the two of you," he kissed her before standing up, helping her out of the chair.

"Are you coming or not?" Sherlock stood by the door, dressed now. He settled his scarf around his neck. "The cab is waiting,"

Sandwiched between her two boys, Molly sat, a little frightened as the cab wound its way through traffic. Just as she thought idly to herself that too many women made too big a deal out of going into labor, a contraction rippled through her body, doubling her over. She grabbed both Sherlock and John, crying out.

"Take a left-" Sherlock ordered, letting Molly squeeze the hell out of his arm. John soothed her back, coaching her breathing.

By the time they reached St. Barts Molly could hardly stand upright. Sherlock walked ahead of them, having thrust money at the cabby while John helped Molly inside.

"I need a bed," Sherlock said authoritatively at the desk. The receptionist lifted her eyes from the computer screen. She opened a new screen,

"Name?"

"Molly Watson-"

"What?"

"Sherlock for God's sake-" he turned from the baffled nurse to see Molly barely able to stand while John managed the bags and her and the door. As soon as he was within reach, Molly grabbed the front of Sherlock's coat, her knees nearly buckling. He slid his arm around her waist, boosting her up again. "Help her while I check us in," John said and went to the desk.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, of course-" the nurse at the desk glanced from Sherlock to Molly. "We have a room waiting, I'm afraid Doctor Roderick is out of the country, everyone is on holiday, and we're rather short-staffed but the doctor on call is excellent-"

"Perhaps a chair could be arranged before Mrs. Watson delivers on the floor of your emergency room?" Sherlock asked, and the nurse nodded, motioning for an aid to bring around a wheel chair. Holding it steady, he watched John ease Molly into the chair, kneeling before her.

"It's going to be alright Molls, we'll get you settled and hooked up and then we'll find the doctor, okay?"

"Okay," John's warm, steady voice seemed to calm her. He was sure it would be alright, so Molly felt herself relax somewhat. If John said it was going to be fine, then of course it would be. Why wouldn't it?

Hours ticked by and it became increasingly obvious to Molly that baby wanted to stay inside her forever and not see the light of day because frankly, if she had her way, this kid would be out by hour one. Over the course of the next twenty hours contractions came in great waves, though none seemed to bring the peak John told her she was waiting for, he said she'd feel a tremendous urge to push. Push him out the window for doing this to her? Yep. Felt that. For now she held onto his hand, crunching ice chips and watching the stupid beeping monitor that told her when contractions were coming and going, as if she couldn't tell herself! She rattled her cup, emptying the last into her mouth, chewing noisily. John saw and took the cup, pressing a kiss to her sweaty forehead.

I'll be right back," he said. "Sherlock will you sit with her?" the detective cracked an eye open. "I'm going to go fetch her more ice chips and see if there's any word on the doctor," Sprawled on the chair, his hands steepled under his nose, he nodded to John. Once the door shut he uncrossed his legs, moving over to the bed. Clenching the sheets, Molly cried out, tears in her eyes. Slowly, slowly, she released the bed sheets, leaning back against the pillows.

"Talk Sherlock, it's unsettling when you don't," she said, trying to make a joke. He gave a half smile, watching her breathe deeply, trying to corral her strength for the ever growing contractions. "What's taking so long?" she murmured. "What's wrong?" her voice was strained, tired. Sherlock did not respond. He watched the monitor tracking her heart as well as the child's. Steady and regular. Taking her hand, he gave it a comforting pat. She didn't let go when he did, instead buckling forward,

"_John!"_ Both Molly and Sherlock bellowed.

He sprinted in; a doctor and nurse close behind him.

"I can't wait any more, John, this baby needs to come out _now-" _Molly ground out.

"Doctor Roderick telephoned just a moment ago-" said the nurse,

"I don't care, I don't want to wait, I don't give a flip how this kid comes out so long as it does-" Molly grabbed John by the collar "You get this kid out of me or so help me I'm telling Sherlock where we hid his cigarettes,"

"I'm gonna scrub up," the doctor behind him said, rolling up his sleeves, he caught the nurse' attention, "She can't wait any longer,"

"We're short-staffed as it is, we can't spare an extra pair of hands to help you," said the nurse.

"I can help," John said immediately, he squeezed Molly's hand. "Get me a gown, please," the nurse nodded, hurrying out to the linen closet. "Sherlock, you're on coaching duty, wash your hands and put on a cap,"

"John I-" Sherlock began but stopped, catching sight of a figure in the doorway. "For God's sake Mycroft, shut the door, not everyone needs to see Molly's business!" Sherlock snapped. It would be just like him to show up without being invited to something as unexpected as Molly delivering two weeks early.

"Apologies," he said and shut the door. He watched, content to be ignored for the time being as a nurse helped John into his scrubs and Sherlock washed his hands. "Can I be of any assistance or-"

"Get. Out." Molly ground out. Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. She didn't have her normal doctor to deliver her baby, she'd been in labor for twenty hours, and now Mycroft was in her room, staring at her downstairs as if he'd never seen one. So was Sherlock for that matter. John looked up from between her knees.

"Oy!" he snapped his fingers, and both Holmes looked up. At least Sherlock had the decency to look embarrassed. "You," he pointed to Sherlock "Help Molly, you," he pointed to Mycroft. "Get out, too many people and you're not clean," Mycroft looked insulted but did as he was asked.

If Molly was asked how she imagined the birth of her first child would be, she probably would not have said that John would be assisting delivery and that Sherlock was sitting behind her, coaching her through it. Well, sort of. He was more interested in what was going on beneath the sheet than coaxing her.

"You're doing beautifully, Molly, come on, another push-" John said, she was aware of the doctor saying something else as well but all she heard was her husband's voice. That is until Sherlock started yelling in her ear.

"For God's sake, John, she doesn't need coddling, just deliver the baby-"

"Sherlock, shut UP!" Molly shouted. He sat behind her, feeling like a cushion on a couch, her nails dug into the skin of his forearms as she groaned.

"Good, good, good, that's brilliant, Molly, one more, and we're there-" Sherlock found himself leaning forward, speaking quietly to Molly as she shook her head tiredly.

"Look at John," she didn't dare open her eyes; sure if she did she'd lose her strength. "Molly, look at him," gritting her teeth, she did. Her husband was focused on the task at hand, but when he looked up at her, his expression was a mixture of love and concern, awe and adoration.

Strength renewed, or at least resolved, Molly leaned forward, and with a great cry, the child was in John's hands. Molly collapsed, relieved.

"What is it?" she asked. Sherlock was peering over her shoulder, having seen the entire birth upside-down, and remained silent, quite fascinated.

"It's a girl," John managed, quite overcome by the sight of his firstborn. "A beautiful baby girl," The doctor, having no nurse beside him took the baby, cleaning her up as John went to Molly, kissing her. Sherlock scrambled down from behind her, straightening his collar.

"Where are you going?" John asked,

"To fetch Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade from the waiting room. Mycroft sent me a text that they'd heard about Molly and wanted to be here for her." With that he swept out of the room, leaving the Watson's to cuddle and admire their newborn.

They only had a few moments before Mycroft came in, congratulating them in his own way, which seemed on the cusp of a threat (one never could tell with the elder Holmes). Mycroft came and went before they had any chance to wonder, and then Mrs. Hudson came in, Greg close behind, and there were warm smiles and teary eyes all around.

"Oh Molls, she's got your eyes," Greg said.

"You must let me spoil her," Mrs. Hudson said, "Sometimes at any rate," she added.

Sherlock waited while the others went in and cooed and fussed over Molly and the baby. John accepted the handshakes and hugs and smiles and congratulations, but from where he was sitting, Sherlock could see John only had eyes for Molly and the baby. After fifteen minutes or so, Greg and Mrs. Hudson at last bid them goodnight, faces beaming for their friends.

"Sherlock?" he looked up to see John standing by the door. "Are you going to come in?" He looked from the doorway to the wall and then straight ahead.

"Of course I am. Don't be stupid."

"Well come in then," John almost grinned, leaning against the frame. "You're not…nervous are you?"

"John…" Sherlock began, and for a moment, Watson thought he might say something revealing. His tone was soft, almost raw. But he blinked quickly, standing up, snatching his coat and draping it over his arm. "Don't be childish," he sniffed and breezed past him.

"Molls, I'm gonna run down to the cafeteria, do you want anything?" John asked

"Just a sandwich," she said. "Nothing heavy." He nodded and went off.

Now he was alone with the two of them, and Sherlock found himself taking every step with measure and precision. He was not one to look at a baby and wish he had one. He wouldn't coo and make faces or weep when they did something completely ordinary as using their diaper. However, Sherlock did admit that children were miracles in their own right, still untouched by the madness of the world, skin unbroken as of yet, minds unaltered, ready to absorb information. What delightful things one could teach a child, if only more parents realized the possibilities of their children.

"Are you deducing her, Sherlock?" Molly's soft voice startled him. She smiled up at him. "I'm afraid you won't find much, she's only thirty minutes old."

"What have you called her?"

"We decided on Matilda." He walked around the bed, carefully laying his coat down on the chair. He held his arms out, waiting expectantly for her to place the baby in his arms. She looked surprised, and he couldn't fathom why. If Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade could hold a baby, why couldn't he? But she didn't say anything; she only smiled warmly at him, carefully handing Matilda over to him.

Safe in his arms, the child gurgled sleepily. Her eyes were large and dark, blinking, as they focused and unfocused. She could feel long, sturdy arms, fingers poking at the blanket she was swaddled in, tucking it under her chin. Babies generally were often not very attractive when first born. Sometimes they were not attractive at all, and stayed that way. Then friends and family had to gush and pretend that the child was as beautiful as the parents thought they were. Sherlock didn't see why, social necessity he supposed. Fortunately, John and Molly had produced an above-average looking baby, perhaps one day she would be pretty. For now, the only word Sherlock could associate with her with was winsome. Her mouth was small and red and it was clear Molly was responsible for the child's large attractive eyes.

Molly sat watching him study Matilda,

"I could take her back-"

"No." he said quickly. She looked startled, sitting back a little. "I am perfectly capable of holding a child," he said and sat down in the chair by the bed. John came back with two cups of coffee and a few sandwiches.

"Here Sherlock, I figured you'd want a cup, and there's a sandwich for you, eat it, you're not on a case." Sherlock glanced up from the baby to the food. Matilda began to squirm, squalling a little.

"I'll take her, she'll need to eat too," Molly said and reached. Carefully, minding her head, Sherlock handed her back. John watched his friend. He seemed to be studying Matilda with some wide-eyed fascination, unsure of how he ought to behave. If it weren't so endearing, John might have teased him. But Sherlock was not the first man to be shocked by a child, nor the last.

"Shall I go?" Sherlock asked as Molly undid her gown.

"Not unless you want to," she shrugged, quite unembarrassed by either of them. Perhaps because they had at one time or another seen her breasts. John obviously had since he was her husband. Sherlock on the other hand had accidentally walked in on her in the shower two months ago. Molly was so heavily pregnant she only swore at him and made him find her a towel. He wasn't embarrassed by nudity, but he had always figured Molly was.

John admired Molly as she nursed their newborn. He was a father! Good heavens, so much meaning in such a small word. He looked over at Sherlock, his hands steepled under his nose, eyes shut. After a moment, John cleared his throat, nodding to Molly.

"Sherlock."

"Hm."

"We…were wondering if perhaps…perhaps you'd like to be Matilda's guardian." Sherlock opened his eyes, sitting up a little.

"No one could ever look after her better than you if anything happened to us," John said. Sherlock looked from one to the other, not quite understanding.

"What about your sister?" he asked.

"Come on, you know more than any of us she isn't reliable, I'd want Matilda to be near her friends and family, her London family, that includes you."

"What about Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson-"

"Sherlock if you don't want to, that's perfectly alright," Molly said, though it was clear she didn't feel it would be. "You have the right to say no."

"I'm not saying no," he said. "I am merely trying to understand why you would entrust the life of a child to me." John and Molly looked at each other, and then at Sherlock.

"Because you're family," John said. "You're like a brother, better than that, you're my mate." He shrugged.

"And that's what 'mates' do…they become each other's children's godparents?" Sherlock queried.

"Sometimes," John nodded. "The best ones stick around for thirty or forty years and not pretend to be dead."

"You know I only take on cases if they're a seven or higher," he said to them. "Well," he was quiet a moment. "I suppose watching you two try and rear a child can't be any less than a nine," and he turned away to the window before he gave himself away. The tiniest of smiles formed on the consulting detective's face, he watching John and Molly's reflection in the glass as they cared for their newborn. Watching John cuddle and kiss the child, seeing the warmth and tender care in Molly's eyes, yes, this would be a nine at least.


End file.
